


In the Garden

by sinemoras09



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Immortality, Imprisonment, Medical Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-09
Updated: 2008-05-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4517568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinemoras09/pseuds/sinemoras09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of oneshots featuring Adam Monroe. non-con Adam/Yaeko. Warnings for medical torture/experimentation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Tent

**Part I**

 

 

At the foot of the pallet, Yaeko loosens her hair. Her kimono drops, and through the slit in the tent, Adam can see the smooth skin of her back, the curve of her hip. She moves with her back towards him, completely unaware of the flap in the tent which hangs half-open behind her.

This had not been part of the plan. The plan was, Adam would politely ask to be invited in; he would ask if she would like to spend some time with him, perhaps walk outside and look at the stars. Instead, Adam just stood awkwardly outside. Then Yaeko started undressing. There was really nothing else he could do.

Now Yaeko begins to unwind the fabric around her waist. The layers peel away, yards and yards of it, the fabric pooling at her feet. She turns, and Adam can just barely make out the side of her breast, the rounded softness. Yaeko dips forward, slipping a small cloth into a small bowl of water. She starts washing herself slowly, her hair swinging in back of her like silk. Almost involuntarily, Adam imagines what it would feel like to have the tips of her fingers on his face, a cool cloth in her hands....

"Kensei?"

Adam startles, sees Hiro standing behind him. "Kensei, what are you--"

Hiro peers over his shoulder, sees Yaeko undressed. "What are you _doing_?!"

"It's not what it looks like," Adam says.

"This is _dishonorable_! You cannot do this! You cannot spy on women when they bathe!"

"And you think I don't know that?" Adam says. "Good Christ, Carp, she had the tent wide open! She may as well invited me in, with the way she was dancing around like that."

"You cannot win the princess's heart by spying on her," Hiro says. "You are supposed to be a _hero_! And heroes do not spy."

"Right. That's because _heroes_ get invited in," Adam says.

Hiro's face pinches. Adam stares at him. "What?" Adam says.

Hiro leans forward. He sniffs Adam's breath.

"Hiro! What?"

Hiro sniffs again. His eyes widen. "You are drunk!"

"I am _not_ \--"

"You smell like sake, you are drunk!" Hiro says.

"I am not drunk!" Adam says. "I just wanted to talk to her, that's all! Do you know how hard it is, trying to woo a woman who has no interest? I can't even have her tend to my wounds--they heal too bloody fast! And the only time she even looks at me is when you're around. So _excuse me_ if I feel just a mite neglected. I have needs too!"

Yaeko emerges from the tent. She's dressed again, her damp hair clinging to her throat. In Japanese, she asks, "What's wrong?"

The two men gape at her a moment. Hiro pushes his glasses, blinking fast.

"Nothing," Hiro says. "We are discussing strategy against Whitebeard's army."

"It sounded like you were fighting," Yaeko says.

"Kensei is a passionate man. He is angry that Whitebeard is still undefeated," Hiro says.

"I see." Yaeko nods, then smiles politely at Adam. She disappears back into the tent.

Adam sags. Hiro crosses his arms. He switches back to English.

"No more spying," Hiro says. He hands Adam back his sword. "And no more drinking. You must be sober to do the next trial."

"I'm not drunk, Carp," Adam says. Hiro stops and turns. "I wanted to talk to her, and I needed a couple drinks to steady my nerves. But then she started undressing. I couldn't very well just barge in."

Hiro frowns. "Yaeko is destined to be your princess. You cannot be afraid of her."

"That creature is perfection, I have no business even being near her," Adam says. He runs his thumb along the hilt of the sword, traces the golden symbol. "She only lights up when you're around. I'm almost positive once you leave she'll lose interest. I swear, if we're ever married I'll have to make you stay for the wedding night, God knows I'd probably bugger that one up, too."

Hiro's face darkens a moment; then he shakes his head.

"You are Takezo Kensei," Hiro says. "You are a hero. Your bravery is known throughout the world. You cannot give up."

"Right," Adam says. "Then why is it I feel like a fraud?"

Later that night, Adam and Hiro share a tent, while Yaeko stays by herself by the side of the river. Hiro is asleep, but Adam is restless. He pushes the flap open and walks out into the field where Yaeko's tent is lit. He pauses briefly, then squats, watching. It's cold now; Adam can see the plume of his breath swirl in the air. Tomorrow he faces the Black Bear of Shakkashita, the man who guards the scrolls to Whitebeard's lair. Adam pulls out his flask and uncorks it. He starts to drink, then thinks the better of it, and he dumps the sake on the ground.


	2. Vignette

In the darkness, Yaeko moaned. Breath heavy with opium, her face was warm and flushed; pieces of hair were sticking to her forehead. Slowly, Adam brushed her hair aside with his fingertips, peeling back the layers of fabric around her kimono. Around him, the smoke drifted; candlelight flickered in the wind. Adam sank to his knees and kissed her on the hollow of her neck, her breast, each pert nipple and then to her sex. 

"Please," Yaeko said, softly. A thin film of sweat beaded up on her face. Quietly, Adam readjusted the bowl of opium, letting the smoke drift gently toward her. "No..."

He worked his way inside her, his hand on the slope of her thigh. He felt her wetness like honey, slow and languid and deliciously soft. Yaeko groaned, her eyelids fluttering. "Stop..."

The candlelight flickered, and outside the storm clouds eased into a slight haze over the moon.

_"What is 'love'?" Yaeko asked, in Japanese. In the tent, she held one of Adam's books; her fingertips brushed against the English word._

_Wordlessly, Adam drew the kanji with broad strokes. "This is love," Adam said, and Yaeko smiled. "This is how I feel about you."_

His fingers sank into the fleshy underside of Yaeko's arm. He began to thrust more violently. Yaeko gasped; even in her stupor, even with the smoke and the opium-tinged air, she clasped his arms, hard. "No, no, no..."

He would never hurt her. He would never harm her. He would follow her to the ends of the earth and he would never leave her. _"What is love?" Yaeko asked._

Love is a thousand moments between two people that bind them together.

Love is a shared secret. Love is the breadth of the soul.

He could feel her contract around him, feel the muscles tense and her back arch against him. Her mouth was gaping open; her hair was stuck to her face. 

_"You are the one I love," Yaeko said to Hiro._

Adam pounded harder, gripping her tight.

_"My Hiro-sama," Yaeko said, and she kissed Hiro's face. "My Hiro-kun."_

He came with a hoarse cry, sinking into Yaeko's breast. Slowly, the pounding in his ears began to recede, and he looked up at Yaeko's blank face.

"Kill me," Yaeko said, softly. She looked up at Adam with terrible eyes. "Please." 

Her skin was cool and damp. And it was like he was ripped in two.


	3. Yellow Bird

_i_.

What can be said about the nature of grief? The shape of his emptiness, the knife in his heart?

The river is unforgiving, and so is he.

 

_ii._

"I do not love you," Yaeko says, and Adam grabs her by the arms, thrusts his face into hers.

"You speak as if you have a choice."

 

_iii._

There is a rope, which cuts across the skin of her hands. There is the girl, whose eyes flash at him with hate.

He had kissed those eyes the night before.

 

_iv._

The morning comes, and with it comes fog: gray frayed clouds and the threat of rain. 

"He will come for me," Yaeko says.

His fingertips fall as he touches her cheek.

"Yes," he says. "I know."


	4. Drinking Mercury

Something rustles. Yaeko turns, and in the half-light of the lantern, she can barely make out the outline of his face. "Kensei-sama," Yaeko says.

Adam steps out from the shadows, pulling back the hood of his cloak.

"You died," Yaeko says. She takes a step back, her hand reaching out behind her. "There was an explosion--you cannot be alive."

"Out from the ashes," Adam says, softly. "Do you know what a phoenix is, Yaeko?" He raises a hand, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "It is a creature who dies by fire and rises again. A resurrection, of sorts. A resurrection not unlike mine." 

Yaeko jerks away; Adam's hand falls to his side. "You are afraid of me," Adam says.

"You tried to kill the one I love," Yaeko says.

"The one _I_ loved," Adam says. "Left me for another man." He steps forward and Yaeko flinches, backing up against the wall. "How could you do that to me?" Adam says. "I loved you, Yaeko," Adam says. "I loved you, but you threw it all away."

"Kensei," Yaeko says. He's standing close now, close enough to touch. Adam breathes her name, and it's like a prayer on his lips. "Yaeko," he says, and his eyes burn. "How could you?"

His lips ghost the curve of her neck, and Yaeko swallows. "You are not Hiro," Yaeko says, and he grabs her around the waist. Yaeko gasps, feels his strong arms pin her down. He kisses her hard, and Yaeko struggles to breathe. Desperate hands press up at her sides, gropes blindly up her back and tangles into her thick black hair. 

They stumble onto the pallet, Adam's knee pressed between her legs, her kimono being wrenched from under her. He tears at the yards of fabric like a man possessed; a bare shoulder is revealed, the hollow of her neck, pale skin against the thick dark cloth. "I would have loved you, Yaeko," Adam says, and a calloused hand ghosts over her skin. "I would have loved you a thousand times over." He kisses her breast and Yaeko's breath hitches at the back of her throat.

In the corner of the room, the lantern flickers; there is a draft coming through the wooden slats on the floor, and the candlelight flickers to darkness and back, making arabesques of the shadows on the wall. Yaeko can barely see him, a dark silhouette hovering over her. She reaches a hand to his chest and she can feel his heart beating, can feel his hips grinding against her sex. She's nothing now, she's losing all sense of herself; she's nothing but nerves and sensation, his hot mouth on her breast, his hand between her legs. He tongues at her nipple and Yaeko moans, arching her back. Slowly he kisses her ribcage, her belly, working his way down until she gasps at the sudden hot, moist touch of his mouth on her clit; she throws her head back as he nurses on her, palming her by the hips and laving her with the tenderest of attention. And gently, so gently, she feels him start to probe her entrance with his fingers. 

Yaeko's hips buck, and he slips his fingers easily inside of her, nursing at her clit and gently moving his fingers into her. Yaeko groans, desperate to have him inside of her, and she pulls him up by the arms; abruptly his fingers pull out from inside, and the suddenness of the movement makes her gasp and clench her thighs. 

Yaeko whimpers. "Please."

"Tell me you need me," Adam says.

"Kensei--"

"Say it," Adam says.

"Yes," Yaeko whispers. "I need you."

"How?" Adam says.

"What?"

"How do you need me?" Adam says.

"Inside," Yaeko says. "Please."

Adam rears up on his haunches, and all at once, she can feel the blunt end of his cock pressing against her entrance. Yaeko groans and moves her hips, and he slides inside of her; he's hard and thick and the friction is almost unbearable. "Please," Yaeko says. Wordlessly Adam thrusts harder, and Yaeko gasps, trembling from the sensation. "Kensei," Yaeko says. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and presses her face against the crook of his neck. He rides her hard, fucking her with abandon. "Kensei," Yaeko says, and he thrusts harder. "Kensei. Kensei."

"Why?" Adam says. He kisses her frantically, hands tangling in her hair. "Why do you love him?"

"Kensei, please--"

"Why?" Adam says. He fucks her harder, grabbing her by the thigh and thrusting even deeper. "Tell me!"

"Kensei...Kensei..."

He fucks her senseless, pounding her without rhythm, hard and erratic; Yaeko feels herself tighten against him. Something inside her is about to snap, and she rears up against him, throwing her hands around his back and gasping for air. "Oh! Oh! _Oh_!"

She comes hard, muscles bucking in violent spasms. Her nails dig into Adam's skin hard enough to draw blood; it's only then that she feels him find his own release, feels him gasping and pulsing inside of her. 

Everything slows. Slowly the pounding in her ears subsides, and she can hear the hiss of his breathing against her cheek. She is spent and so is he. His face is damp against her bare skin, and it slowly dawns on her: he's quietly weeping. Outside, the sakura droops in the cool night air, and there's nothing more she can do. 

Yaeko says nothing. There is blood under her nails, but the scratches on Adam's back have already begun to knit. Yaeko closes her eyes and presses her forehead against Adam's face. 

"Kensei-sama," Yaeko says. His eyes are like bruises and it makes her feel ashamed. "Kensei-sama, I--"

He slaps her across the face.

Yaeko's hand flies up to her cheek, which is red and stinging. Tears prick her eyes and she stares up at Adam, hurt and confused.

"You were right, love," Adam says. "I never was your Hiro."

"Kensei..." Yaeko's face crumbles. The red sakura falls; firelight flickers across her face.

He's not there when she starts to cry.


	5. Yumi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam tries to find solace in Yaeko's great great granddaughter.

_i._

The night is quiet, and inside it's dark except for the candlelight flickering in the corner. Slowly, Yumi unpins her hair, lets it fall in loose curls around her shoulders. Her hand touches the clasp at her throat, traces a line down to the rounded softness of her breast. The robe falls open. She waits, expectantly.

"I'm sorry," Adam says. "I can't do this." 

Yumi blinks. She pulls the robe around herself, her eyes filling with tears. 

 

_ii._

When it rains in England, he thinks of Yaeko's face, the way her hair swept back and her hands moved almost carelessly. He thinks of crashing against the wooden steps, of opium and her dark, dark eyes. He's haunted by them. Tormented by them. He imagines their bodies lying sated in the grass, underneath dark stars and the petals and the rain.

 

_iii._

"I do not please you," Yumi says. 

"That's not true," Adam says. 

"Then why won't touch me?" Yumi says. 

Adam touches the base of the candle, watches the soft flame flicker in the dark. 

"You would not believe the things I've seen," Adam says, softly. "I've traveled too far and too long, and all I want is peace. I am an old man, Yumi, and you...you are just a child." 

"You are not that old," Yumi says. Adam smiles, then looks down at his feet.

"I'm older than I look," Adam says. His eyes flick upward back to hers. "You're still just a girl."

"And you are my husband," Yumi says. Her small hands lightly touch his chest. She moves to kiss him but Adam turns his head. "Please," Yumi says. She kisses his jaw. "Please."

"Yumi--" 

She kisses his mouth. Adam breathes, then kisses her back. He dips forward and kisses her neck, the side of her jaw. He kisses her softly, feels her eyelids flutter. Pulling back slightly, he watches Yumi loosen her robe; a single perfumed shoulder peaks out from underneath the fabric. 

She's not Yaeko. She can't be Yaeko. But perhaps this once he can try.

 

_iv._

Yumi sleeps. Her body is warm and she breathes deeply, quietly, her skin glowing orange in the dim candlelight. It's only then that Adam stands up from their embrace, dressing quietly and tying on his robe.

There are bandits to the east. They ride horseback along the riverside, stealing from whoever wanders there by chance. Adam will walk by the riverbank with a satchel of gold. He will walk carelessly--perhaps drunkenly--until the sound of hoofbeats fill the air.

Arrows strike. They slam once, twice into his chest. He falls face first into the river, coins spilling onto the riverbank. 

News travels and Yumi weeps. She does not know her husband watches with deep-hooded eyes, dressed in monks' robes that hide his face.

He leaves for England the next fortnight.


	6. Part II: Rounds

**Part II**

 

 

"I read in your file that you had some medical training. We can put that to good use."

Mohinder sits in Bob's office, his hands folded in his lap. Bob is leafing through Mohinder's file, pausing every now and then to highlight on the text. Mohinder waits uneasily as Bob finishes shuffling through the pile.

"We've been without a physician for quite some time now. Fortunately for us, this hasn't been a problem," Bob says. "Our scientists are very well equipped to deal with the clinical side of their research. We expect you to be no different."

"But I'm not a clinician, I'm a scientist," Mohinder says. "I can listen through a stethoscope just fine, but the different gradations of heart and lung sounds are completely foreign to me. I wouldn't know a heart murmur from a chest cold. And even if I did, I wouldn't know what to do about it."

"Dr. Suresh, any third-year medical student can do what we're asking you to do. All you need to do is make sure they're still breathing. That's all," Bob says.

Mohinder nods, slowly. He takes the Company stethoscope and places it around his neck.

"What happened to the physician on staff?" Mohinder asks. Bob spreads his hands.

"Your friend, Mr. Sylar, killed him," Bob says.

Mohinder stares at the paperweight gleaming on Bob's desk. The edges are wrapped in gold.

 

*****

 

4:30 AM, Mohinder wakes and prints out a census: 24 subjects in-house; 16 experiments the previous night. Those that were experimented on need labwork to make sure they can tolerate further testing. Those that weren't experimented on are likely to be released--they're just routine bag-and-tags, so all they need is their trackers checked to make sure they're working properly. Mohinder logs onto the computer, checks the status of each subject. Already it's making his head hurt, and he's only been on the job for half an hour.

Mohinder places the stethoscope around his neck and puts on his white coat. Then he loads up his cart and starts making his rounds.

Things go by uneventfully. Mohinder starts to get the hang of charting, of changing IV fluids and checking the trackers. He finishes his rounds and heads toward Adam Monroe's cell: Adam has the double luxury of not only having had experimentation done on him the night previously, but also is someone from whom Mohinder needs samples. It would be a long visit, so it behooved Mohinder to save him for last.

The hall is dark except for the side lights on the floor. The hallway is made entirely of glass; through it, Mohinder can see all the uninhabited cells, the fresh sheets waiting for each new subject. Sylar had been kept here; so had countless other high risk individuals over the course of The Company's lifetime. Mohinder pushes his cart, feeling vaguely unsettled. At the very end is Adam Monroe's cell. Mohinder parks his cart and peers through the glass. Adam is asleep. Mohinder opens the door.

The fluorescent lights flick on. Adam rolls over, shielding his eyes. Mohinder kneels down beside him.

"I have to examine you," Mohinder says, quietly. "This won't be long."

Adam sits up. Gingerly, Mohinder puts on his stethoscope and listens to Adam's heart and lungs. He pulls off the stethoscope and places it around his neck. "I need a sample of your blood. Do you have a preference for which arm I use?"

"It doesn't really matter," Adam says, and Mohinder kicks himself, mentally. Adam heals, of course it doesn't matter. But Adam says it softly and without irony. He holds his arm out, waiting for Mohinder to tie on the tourniquet.

Mohinder pulls the tourniquet around Adam's arm, and tries to tie it the proper way--with a half-knot, so that the tourniquet can slip off easily. But he can't get it to work, so he ties it tight the regular way, as if he's tying a shoe-lace. Adam watches him with a quiet disinterest, the way a cat would sitting by a door.

"Okay," Mohinder says. "Just a pinch." And he sticks the needle in Adam's arm.

No blood.

"Wait--" Mohinder's brow knits. He advances the needle, waiting for the flush. Nothing.

"I think I infiltrated the--I think I missed your vein," Mohinder corrects himself, remembering to speak in laymen's terms. "I have to try again." He pulls the needle out and advances. Still nothing. A large bruise starts to form at the puncture site.

"You might want to try the other arm, the vein's collapsed," Adam says. Mohinder glances up and quickly removes the needle. As soon as the needle's withdrawn, the bruise begins to involute, going from a deep purple to a mottled green, and then regresses completely. Mohinder frowns, fiddling with his syringe.

"Sorry," Mohinder says. "I'm not trained to draw blood."

"It's all right," Adam says. "I think I prefer you to Elle." And then Mohinder realizes _Adam's speaking in Hindi_. He's been speaking Hindi the entire time; it was so fluent Mohinder didn't even notice.

"What's wrong?" Adam asks, and Mohinder's mind skips. He pulls out the tourniquet quickly, tightening it around Adam's arm.

"You speak Hindi," Mohinder says.

"You sound surprised," Adam says.

"But you speak Hindi better than I do," Mohinder says. Adam sits up, delighted.

"You're a Tamil speaker! You should have told me," Adam says, switching languages. "And here I was, being presumptuous. I should have realized. My apologies. It's been awhile since I've been in the region."

"I--I'm sorry, this is all so much," Mohinder says, in Tamil. "I haven't spoken Tamil with anyone for so long...."

"I know the feeling," Adam says. "I haven't conversed with a proper Englishman in decades. Come to think of it, you're probably the closest thing to it. Were you schooled in Britain?"

"Yes. Oxford." Mohinder's mind is still playing catch-up. He re-ties the tourniquet around Adam's arm. "How do you know Tamil?"

"I've been around," Adam says. "When you're as old as I am, collecting languages becomes kind of second nature."

The needle advances; blood begins to come out. Mohinder sits back, relieved.

"Finally," Mohinder says. "I've never been good at things like this. It always makes me uneasy, especially if I'm not one-hundred percent sure of what I'm doing."

"I thought not. You don't seem like the type," Adam says.

"You mean the doctor type?" Mohinder asks.

"I mean the 'Company' type," Adam says. "Ruthless and singularly driven. You just don't strike me as that kind of person."

Mohinder finishes collecting the blood. "And what kind of person do you see me as?" Mohinder asks.

"Intelligent. Philosophical. Perhaps a bit too philosophical, but not to the point where it interferes with your work," Adam says. "You remind me of me, in a way. Being so far from home, and all."

"Home is where you make it," Mohinder says. "I've no particular attachments. My research is what's important."

"You're lying," Adam says. "You think about it all the time. Why else are you still speaking Tamil to me?"

"Because you're not speaking English," Mohinder says, in English. It comes out angrier than he had intended. It's too much, too soon, too damn personal to be anybody's business. The last time he opened himself up like that, he had inadvertently helped the man who killed his father; the man on whom he had sworn to to take revenge. It's as if he's being manipulated all over again.

Adam seems to withdraw into himself. He hunches over, folding his arms.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to presume," Adam says, quietly. He's speaking in English, now. "Home for me was four hundred years ago, there's no way I can go back. I just thought it was something we had in common."

Mohinder's jaw tightens. "Well you would be wrong," Mohinder says. Adam's eyes grow dim.

"I see," Adam says. He turns around in his bunk and faces the wall.

Later, Mohinder drops by the records office and asks for the files related to Adam Monroe: newspaper clippings, historical records; birth certificates to children he probably had never known. Pulling out a folder, a yellowed piece of paper slips out and flutters on the desk: a page from a diary, dated almost sixty years ago. Mohinder picks it up and holds it to the light. _"I never knew my parents,"_ it says. The handwriting is immaculate, as if it were written during the Civil War. _"Sometimes I wonder if I just sprang up from the earth. It's been so long, I don't even know...."_

Mohinder sets the page down. Rubbing his eyes, he glances back at the clock, which reads 2:12 in the morning. Slowly, he begins to pack up his things, switching off the lamp by his desk before heading toward the door.


	7. Garden

"I don't suppose you play chess, do you?"

Hank fiddles with the catheter, unnerved. Earlier, the Company ordered for radioactive isotopes to be given to Adam intravenously: they wanted to see how quickly it gets cleared from his body. Hank pushes up Adam's hospital gown, exposing Adam's genitals; he pulls Adam's penis up with one hand and swabs it with iodine. Adam is nonplussed. He keeps talking, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Chess is a thinking man's game, you know," Adam says. "There's quite a bit of strategy involved. Of course, there's strategy in just about anything--Chinese checkers, for instance--but chess. Chess is an art."

"You're going to feel some pressure," Hank says, and he starts threading the catheter into Adam's urethra. The catheter jams; Hank pushes but the catheter doesn't advance. He pulls the catheter out, sees blood at the tip.

"Oh, fuck me," Adam says. He pulls his gown back down. "Is it my prostate again?"

"I'm afraid so," Hank says. He tosses the catheter on the tray. "We're going to have to get the coudé--"

"You mean the sharp pointy thing?" Adam asks.

Hank's mouth thins. "Sorry," Hank says.

"You know you can just wait, my prostate'll just shrink itself," Adam says. 

"We need to drain your bladder, I'm sorry, but I have orders--"

"Christ," Adam says. He crosses his arms, stares up at the ceiling. "You might as well get on with it, then," Adam says. 

Hank nods and hurries over to the supply closet.

 

*****

 

Hank punches the numbers on the keypad, opening the door to Adam's cell. Adam is sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading. Without looking up, Adam asks, "Is it six o'clock already?" Hank nods and pushes the cart into Adam's room. 

"How much do you need?" Adam asks.

"Half a liter," Hank says.

"Fine," Adam says. He rolls his sleeve up and holds out his arm. Hank takes out the tourniquet and ties it around Adam's bicep; he swabs Adam's arm with alcohol and pulls back the skin. 

"I'm glad you're not fighting anymore," Hank says. "It makes things a lot easier." Hank advances the needle, watching the flush of blood filling up the tube. 

Minutes pass in silence. Hank checks the blood bag, pulling the tube line straight so that the blood draws out more quickly. The bag fills and Hank switches to another one, tossing the full bag onto the cart. 

"How's the weather?" Adam asks. Hank pulls out a pen and dates and labels the bag.

"It's nice," Hank says. "It's really hot out, nice and sunny. People are walking around in shorts."

"I used to hate the sun," Adam says. "I used to get the most _terrible_ sunburns. And even though they healed quickly it was still a bloody nuisance." Adam chews on his lip, contemplatively. "I still miss it, though," Adam says. 

Hank unties the tourniquet and withdraws the needle, the puncture wound sealing itself up. Adam flexes his arm a bit, rubbing the spot. 

"Anything tonight?" Adam asks. Hank pulls off his gloves, shaking his head.

"Not that I know of, they have a new subject--another pyro. But they're saying he can generate his own flames, not just manipulate existing ones."

"Well, bully for him, I might actually get some reading done," Adam says. 

"I'm glad," Hank says. He stacks the bags up on the cart and throws the needle out into the sharps container. "See you tomorrow."

"Goodnight," Adam says, and Hank leaves the cell; when he looks back through the window, he sees Adam put his book down, closing his eyes.

 

*****

 

Adam won't stop screaming, so they shove a metal rod down his throat to paralyze his vocal cords. Paralytics won't work on him--his system clears the drugs out too fast--and the pain meds wear off too quickly for the same reason. He writhes on the table, pulling up on the leather straps. The other scientists hold his arms down, dragging the scalpel across his skin.

"It's just a pinch, Adam. Just stay still, it's just a pinch."

Adam screams again, jerking his body away. A scientist shoves Adam's face down, pressing the heel of his hand against Adam's forehead. Hands and arms reach across and Adam's eyes are taped wide open.

"Just look into the light, Adam. Keep looking into the light."

Adam screams as the laser slices into his retina, the blood trickling down the side of his face. 

The next day, Hank walks into Adam's cell and sees him curled up on his cot, his hand against his eyes. Adam is sleeping but his body keeps twitching. "Adam? Adam!" Hank puts a hand on Adam's shoulder and shakes him, hard. 

Adam startles, awake, a free hand flying up to his eye. "Oh, Jesus..." Adam lowers his hand back down.

Hank sets the clipboard back on the cart. "You okay?" Hank asks. 

"Never better," Adam says, and he rolls over back on the cot, turning to face the wall.

 

*****

 

Hank spends his weekend off working in his garden, and when he comes to work, he brings a small basket of green peppers he shares with his co-workers. Once again, the Company phlebotomist is away on assignment, so Hank loads up his tray and prepares to draw Adam's blood. Hank punches the numbers on the keypad, opening the door. He pushes the cart inside. 

"I've got something for you," Hank says. Adam looks up with interest. Hank pulls out a small bundle and unwraps it with a flourish: a twig with a wet paper towel wrapped on the bottom. Adam looks up at him, puzzled.

"It's a twig," Adam says.

"It's a clipping," Hank says. "We have cherry trees in our backyard, I thought I'd go ahead and share." Hank pulls out a small tin can packed with dirt; he unwraps the twig and sticks it into the soil. Adam laughs, delighted. 

"You can't be serious," Adam says.

"It'll grow roots, just you wait," Hank says. "We'll just wrap it up with plastic and set it under the light; after about a month or so the root system will be in place."

"Bloody hell, a month?" Adam says. He gets up and starts rummaging through Hank's cart. 

"What are you looking for?" Hank asks.

"Those needles--the little ones you test my blood sugar with, where do you keep them?" 

"These?" Hank says, and Adam grabs it from Hank's hand. He uncaps the needle and pricks his finger, milking the tip so that the blood begins to bead up. Hurrying back to the plant, Adam squeezes a drop of blood in the soil. The twig begins to straighten; leaves begin to sprout. Hank looks at Adam, shocked.

"There, now we have a proper root system," Adam says. He turns the little soup can over, marveling at his work. "We'll need a bigger pot, though. I don't think the little guy can last in such a small container."

Hank glances up at the security camera, worried: if the Company finds out Adam can heal non-humans, God knows what else they would do to him. Adam catches Hank's look and sets the plant down.

"What?" Adam asks. Hank shakes his head.

"Nothing," Hank says. He pulls out the tourniquet and preps Adam's arm.

Later, Company men barge into Adam's cell and yank him back into the lab. They slam Adam's head against the wall; Hank can practically hear his bones crunching. There's that whisper of a tremor, Adam's body healing itself, when they slam into him _again_ , all for the sake of seeing which fractures take the longest to heal. "They heal at the same rate!" Hank says, but no one listens to him. Blood and bits of hair stick on the wall.

 

******

 

After the experiments are over, Hank kneels by Adam's side, checking his pulse. "Your heart rate's up," Hank says, quietly. "You okay?"

"I've seen worse," Adam says. He reaches over to the night stand beside his cot. Hank glances at Adam's hand, and sees that he's trying to reach his plant. Hank takes the plant down and places it close to Adam's face.

"It's blooming," Adam says. Hank turns away.

It's getting dark now, but Hank doesn't shut his blinds; he's too engrossed in his work to notice. He reads the documents, signs and verifies the accuracy of the statements inside: _Blunt trauma was performed. Healing was delayed after infusion of organophosphates._ Hank sighs and closes the folder. Outside there are sirens, the sounds of cars driving by. The window is like a mirror now, and Hank glances at his reflection: dark eyes and even darker circles, the angles of his face sunken and shadowed. Hank stares for a moment, then stands and shuts the blinds. Across from him, he can see Adam's cell on the security screen, the image flickering silently on the monitor.


	8. Part I: Tent

They push his head underwater. Adam struggles. Two, three minutes pass, and darkness starts to rim the corners of his eyes. Reflexively, Adam's mind throws back to his childhood. He thinks of his mother's hands, the sound of hoof beats and the smell of rain. _So this is what it's like,_ Adam thinks. _This is what it's like to die._

Water fills his lungs; it feels like he's being born.

 

*****

 

They throw him back into his cell. Wet and dripping, Adam pulls his legs up to his chest and leans heavily against the concrete wall. He's not healing. Blood oozes out from underneath his bandages and sweat stings his eyes. Above him, the neon EXIT sign glows softly from outside. Ironic that his window should face the inside corridor of Primatech's lab. Adam sags, lacking the strength to crawl back into his bunk. 

The door opens, and a square of light fills the room. Adam blinks his eyes and slowly moves his head. "Who's there?"

"It's Hank." Adam's eyes focus and he sees Hank kneeling beside him. "How are you?"

"I'm not healing," Adam says. "What did they do to me?"

Hank pulls out his stethoscope. He places the bell over Adam's heart.

"They were testing a new protocol," Hank murmurs. He finishes listening, puts the stethoscope over his neck. "They wanted to see if your abilities can be compromised. They reduced the amount of oxygen in your cell, then they pumped your body full of neurotoxins. Your body's overwhelmed. You sustained too many injuries in too short a time, and the toxins in your blood are keeping you from healing. I'm going to give you the antidote now."

Hank puts a tourniquet around Adam's arm and swabs the skin with alcohol. "I told them you could die," Hank says. With his thumb, he pulls Adam's skin taut, then inserts the needle. There's a flush of blood, and the IV goes in smoothly. "It's the only reason they let me see you."

Minutes pass. Adam pulls off a bandage, and he sees the margins of his wounds beginning to close. He closes his eyes as his skin starts to knit back together; he can feel the bruises on his face start to dissipate, the cuts on his arms and hands. His muscles don't ache quite as badly, and Adam hoists himself up on the bunk: he's surprised to see Hank still crouched in the corner, watching.

"You okay?" Hank asks. 

"A little better, thank you," Adam says. Hank nods and starts to pack up his equipment. He touches the IV and examines the lines.

"It should take a couple hours," Hank says. "Just make sure this doesn't kink, I'll be back to check on--"

The IV needle pops out of Adam's hand. The skin seals shut, nicely.

"Well I guess we won't be needing that," Hank says. He picks up the needle and stands by the door. "You gonna be alright?" Hank asks.

"I think so," Adam says. "I just need a little rest, is all."

Hank nods. "Good," Hank says. He pauses at the door, then turns. "I'm not supposed to tell you this, but they're planning to withhold your feedings. They want to see if your nutrition status affects your abilities."

Adam rubs his arm, slicks back his still-wet hair. "I'll be sure to hoard my food, then," Adam says. 

"I didn't hear that," Hank says, and he closes the door.

The lock clicks into place, and Adam is left crouching on the bunk. His cell is cold. Peeling off his wet T-shirt, Adam curses silently that The Company heads didn't think to provide him dry clothes, and that he didn't think to ask Hank to swipe a pair of scrubs from the men's locker room. _This is probably part of the experiment_ , Adam thinks. He winds the thin blanket around his shoulders and leans against the wall. 

 

*****

 

The room buzzes. Adam opens his eyes.

"You're next," someone says, and rough hands yank Adam to his feet. He's handcuffed, a taser to his back; The Haitian stands by, watching. 

A man in the white lab coat hands him a cup. "We need a sample," the man says. 

"I used the toilet already, you'll have to wait," Adams says, and he hands the man the cup.

"We need a _semen_ sample," the man says. He pushes the cup toward Adam's chest.

"Oh. Right," Adam says. He studies the cup, then glances up as the Labcoat Man leaves the room. Adam taps the cup against his thigh, then sits heavily on the bench. If he cooperates, he can be back in his cell quicker. If he cooperates, he'll be back in his room in time for Hank's morning rounds. Hank felt sorry for him; ergo, Hank will probably sneak him alcohol. _Bloody good it does me, I can't get drunk anymore,_ Adam thinks, but it's still something to look forward to.

Like his cell, the room is cold. The walls are gray; the tile floor is white, pristine. He can feel the cold metal of the bench through the seat of his pants; goosebumps prickle his arms. 

"Really setting the mood," Adam says, and he sets the cup down. 

He wonders briefly _why_ they'd want a semen sample. Maybe Adam's sperm is better than other men's. Maybe they can swim faster. Adam doesn't know. He picks the cup up again, turns it over in his hands. He thinks of the last time anyone's touched him like that. His tenth wife, Trina, had found him standing in the den, turning the pages of an atlas. She didn't know his secret. He was going to tell her--he planned on it, was plotting out the words in his head--when she grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him against her. 

Then he was captured. Then they locked him up in the cell.

Someone bangs on the door. 

Adam shoves the cup between his legs. "I'm working on it."

They bang louder. 

"I said I'm _working_ on it!" Adam says. He can hear them walk away. "God help me...."

His penis is doughy under the fabric of his pants. Adam kneads it roughly, willing for it to stand. "Come on...."

At this point, Adam would rather spend more time at the dunk tank. 

Adam stands up; he paces. Absently he bangs the little cup against his leg as he walks. The room is only slightly larger than his cell, except that there's no window, only a bright fluorescent light which buzzes faintly in the background. He's reminded of the mountains, the cold air and the way the sun glinted against the frost-blue horizon. He remembers the sound of tin pans clanging together, the burnt-out smell of fire and charcoal; Yaeko's face as she cooked soup over the flame. 

_Yaeko_. Adam hasn't thought of her for a long time. 

Adam sits back on the bench and closes his eyes. He imagines Yaeko sitting by his feet. She would lean against his leg, the wisps of hair touching his armor--

No, he wouldn't be able to feel her hair under the armor. He'd be wearing a robe. It would be cold and they would have to sit close to keep warm. 

Adam swallows, tilts his head up. His breathing is strained; his muscles tense. He thinks of Yaeko's eyes, that wide-eyed way she looked at him, the way she felt in his arms. She'd crawl up on his lap, and she'd feel so warm, and she'd kiss him on the mouth, and she'd press up against him, and she'd smell _so good_ , and, and, and, _and_ \--

Adam comes, gasping and spurting all over his lap. He fumbles for the cup, trying to aim. His hands are shaking when he scrapes the cup against his legs.

They bang on the door. "You done?"

Adam doesn't answer. The door opens. A shadow falls over Adam's face, and he looks up, sees the Labcoat man's silhouette against the square of light. He snaps on a latex glove and takes Adam's cup. 

"This'll do."

Adam is too weak to protest when they lead him back into his cell.

 

*****

 

Adam is curled up on his cot when Hank enters his cell. Hank sets his bag down. "Christ, what happened?" Hank says. He checks Adam's pulse. "No one told me they were testing you today. Jesus. What'd they do to you?"

Adam watches Hank listlessly as Hank pulls out his stethoscope, starts listening to his heart and lungs. "Deep breath," Hank murmurs, but Adam doesn't breathe. He stares at the floor, his eyes glazed over.

Hank taps Adam's reflex points, looks at Adam's skin for signs of trauma. When he's done, he rocks back on his haunches and examines Adam's face. "What happened to you?" Hank asks.

Adam turns to face the wall. "I had to wank for them," Adam says. He draws his knees up to his chest. He feels like he's going to cry.

Hank folds his hands in his lap. "You okay?" Hank asks. 

Adam nods, still not looking at him. "Yeah," Adam says. Hank rummages through his medical bag.

"Here," Hank says, and he pulls out a small tin of saltines. "For when they decide to withhold your food."

Adam still stares at the wall. "I'm rather hoping I'll just starve to death," Adam says.

Hank sighs, then sets the package on top of Adam's night stand.

"Get some rest," Hank says. "It's going to be a long day tomorrow."


	9. Part III: Buried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam wakes up underground.

**Part III**

 

 

_i._

Once Adam gets over the panic, there really isn't much to do except think. Think and seethe. Bloody Carp. Adam should have slain him years ago.

Strike that. _Centuries_ ago.

 

 _ii_.

There's a knife in Adam's back pocket, but there's not much room in the box. Adam wriggles his hips and tries to roll on his side, but he can't reach. He's too big. Maybe if he breaks his arm, maybe he can get more room?

Adam dislocates his shoulder. It doesn't help.

 

_iii._

Adam gets an idea. He unbuttons his pants and pulls them down. The knife falls out of the pocket. Adam grasps it in his hand. Carefully he reaches above him and starts scraping at the satin lining. Cotton fluff falls on his face and Adam wheezes. Bloody Carp. Adam will make him pay.

 

 _iv_.

There's no more oxygen in the box, Adam's just breathing in his own stench. Adam gags. You would think _that_ would be enough to kill him, but it doesn't. His body doesn't need oxygen. His body is a fucking plant.

 

 _v_.

The stuffing falls and now Adam's at the wood. Perfect. Adam begins to scrape. Scrape scrape scrape. Wood shavings fall on him like cherry blossoms.

 

_vi._

Adam's wrist hurts. Bloody hell. Non-healers would be in agony--Adam quite literally has to bend his hand backward in order to get the right angle. Adam is also hungry. He briefly considers taking a bite out of his own arm--it'll heal itself, so why not?--but he realizes self-cannibalism probably isn't the way to go.

 

_vii._

Scraping at the wood, Adam is uncomfortably warm. Sweat stings his eyes and trickles down the sides of his face, and all he wants right now is a glass of water, or better yet, a nice stiff drink. God knows things would be better if he were at least _a little_ bit drunk.

 

_viii._

Adam needs to use the bathroom.

 

_ix._

Adam thinks of that movie with Uma Thurman, the one where she was an assassin and she was buried alive. She punched her way out of the coffin. Adam considers. Yes. Yes I can do that. Adam bites the knife between his teeth and clenches his fist.

Bloody _hell_ that hurt!

Adam picks the knife back up again.

 

_x._

Scrape scrape scrape. Adam's mind begins to drift. He thinks of Yaeko. Poor, sweet Yaeko. He thinks of soft skin and cherry blossoms, and the way her eyes lit up when she looked at him.

Then Adam remembers Yaeko's face when she kissed Hiro.

 

_xi._

Bloody _Carp_! Fucking _Carp_! Back- _stabb_ ing Judas CARP!

The wood breaks. Soil dumps over Adam's face. Adam throws his hand up and blocks the stream of dirt pouring from the break in the wood.

 

 _xii_.

ScrapeScrapeScrapeScrape SCRAPE! Adam moves quickly. The wood splinters; more dirt dumps on Adam's face. Adam coughs and spits it out of his mouth. He takes the knife between his teeth and starts pounding on the boards with his bare fists. Dirt slams into Adam's face until the coffin is almost filled. The wood splinters and Adam punches an arm through! Yes! Yes yes _yes_!!

The cuts on his arm heal back nicely as Adam flings his body through the slot.

 

 _xiii_.

Adam pulls himself vertically through the six feet of dirt only to slam his head against a concrete slab. Ow! Fucking _hell_! Not needing to breathe, Adam doesn't feel that choking sensation from all that dirt around him. He will just have to do start tunneling horizontally.

 

 _xiv_.

Adam digs sideways, reaching a hand up until he can feel the edge of the concrete slab. It's not like a rabbit hole, or a groundhog tunnel; the soil collapses around him and it's hard to move. But Adam keeps digging, reaching up and around until finally his hand thrusts up to the surface.

On the surface above, the grass bubbles up and explodes, and Adam throws his head up, screaming into the nighttime rain. He claws up onto the surface and drags his body upward, collapsing face down into the muddy earth. A Japanese groundskeeper stares down at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

In Japanese, Adam says, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

The groundskeeper spooks and runs away.

 

 _xv_.

Lying on the ground, Adam remembers lying under the shade of the cherry tree, with Yaeko's head on his shoulder. Her fingertips trailed against his chest, tracing invisible patterns on his shirt and armor, before craning her neck to kiss him softly in the breeze. Adam coughs hard, curling up into himself. The rain falls softly on his skin and Adam closes his eyes. He rolls onto his back and spreads his arms and legs out, relishing the cool night and the wetness of the rain on his skin.

Adam starts to laugh. He laughs hard, laughs with the thunder and the trees swaying above him. He laughs until he starts to sob, pressing the heel of his hand against his eye.

Adam calms down and stands up, slowly. Limping slightly, he walks over to the edge of the black iron gates and looks out into the Tokyo skyline, the city lights winking brightly in the dark, and at the orange sun cresting over the horizon.


	10. A Room Full of Heretics

After the shock, the first thing he feels is pain. Blood and bone begins to reconstitute itself, the dust and dirt swirling and stretching into shape. His mind forces itself to consciousness. _I'm alive. I'm alive! Bloody hell, I'm still alive...._

Adam groans, and claws his way to the foot of the hospital bed. 

 

*****

 

They all think he's dead. Adam is content to let them keep believing.

Above him, the night sky rolls across the city, behind squat fat buildings and neon signs. Pieces of discarded newspaper lie at Adam's feet, and in the dark, he can just barely make out the soiled black-and-white newsprint, JAY'S FURNITURE GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE in big bold letters.

It's cold, and his skin is still raw from the hours before. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he tries to comprehend the events that lead him here: how Arthur had grabbed his arm and sucked him dry; how he fell, a pile of ash and bone, everything inside of him crumbling like so much dust. It was sheer will that brought him back, stubbornness and indignation that forced his body to remember the power that had been stolen from him. _Out from the ashes_ , Adam thinks. The highway traffic falls to a dull blur, and the halos of cars seem to edge around the city in front of him.

 

*****

 

"I need a room. I assume you have the accommodations," Adam says. The kid at the check-out teller stares at him, glassy-eyed and chewing the side of his cheek.

2 AM, and the only place open is a godforsaken motel in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Adam reaches into his wallet where he (miraculously) manages to procure a bit of cash--400 years of wandering the streets makes for ample pick-pocketing, and Mr. Doug Jones of Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania, didn't notice a thing. The kid blinks. "This isn't enough," the kid says.

"The deuce do you mean? It's fifty for the night, this is a fifty," Adam says.

"It's fifty down to reserve a room, another fifty to use it," the kid says. "It's a hundred total. You can put it on your credit card if you want."

"I haven't any credit cards," Adam says, and before he's tempted to use a stolen credit card where he can be tracked and found, he secretly palms off Mr. Doug Jone's wallet into the potted palm behind him. The whole mess of it is utterly infuriating. "For god's sakes, say something," Adam says.

"Maybe you should go somewhere else," the kid says. 

 

******

 

For once in his long long life, Adam doesn't have a plan.

Adam stumbles. The muscles in his legs are still weak. _Come on_ , Adam thinks. Still in the grips of Arthur's power, he feels it like a poison seeping him dry; if he doesn't concentrate, there's still the risk that he may crumble into dust. The whole of it is utterly exhausting. He wonders idly if he should attempt hot-wiring one of the many cars parallel parked at the side of the street. Lord knows a decent automobile would be an improvement over walking. There is, however, the tricky thing about getting _caught_ , and as Adam is still pretending to be Very Much Dead, he decides it's probably not in his best interest to risk it.

He remembers the first time he saw his first car. Back then, automobiles were slower than horses, sputtering and moving in inelegant jerks. They were ridiculous things, overwrought metal beasts that hulked down the road and teetered along the riverbanks, more novelty than practical. 

If he were a man prone to sentimentality, he would block out from his memory how riding a horse and carriage, while environmentally friendly and cringingly romantic, was a rather cumbersome ordeal in its own right, how the dirt roads would be paved with horse shit and how housewives dumped pots of excrement out the door. Funny, his life seems to be utterly _paved_ with excrement. His mouth quirks. it's a little regretful he has no one here to share it with.

Around him, a lonely car sputters in the distance, and the hush of traffic slowly dies out. _Like a candle flickering_ , Adam thinks. Slowly everything around him dims, and the night seems to swallow him whole.

 

*****

 

As he is wont to do in situations like this, Adam shuts his mind up by buying himself some company.

There are girls leaning against broken down doors of the abandoned factory. Adam steps forward, fingering the stolen bills in his hand. There are blondes and brunettes and trannies all lined up like pigs at the farm, and it's only until he finds the sweet-faced Vietnamese one that he stops. 

"How much for a night?" Adam asks, in perfect Vietnamese.

The girl is unimpressed. She turns to the other girl, looking at her as if to say, _look at this asshole. Trying to show off_. Adam smiles and tucks a hundred dollar bill into the waistband of her shorts.

 _Tokyo_. It suddenly occurs to him that he hasn't been in Japan for almost seventy years. A part of him feels his stomach sink. Pushing the feeling away, he takes the girl's hand. "What's your name?" the girl asks. Her English is more than passable.

"Kensei," Adam says. "And when I'm inside you I want you to scream my name."

The sweaty roll of hundreds is more than enough.

 

*****

 

The thing about dying is, every time you come back, you feel a little emptier each time.

He has seen men die a thousand times; seen their faces expand and contract, the ebb of their lives slowly trickling away. He has seen dysentery and consumption, the blood-filled lungs and blood-tinged mouths and grinning death leering at him from behind. Everyone dies. Around him, the night seems colder somehow, and the thin air seems sharp against his still raw skin.

The girl is nothing but sharp angles underneath him, sticky and hot and staring up at him with dead red eyes. Bloodshot, slightly glazed. Adam shifts and turns his head away, engrossing himself with the feel of her hair, coarse and black and tangling in his fingers. Her tits are like mosquito bites and it's almost painful to touch. Decades of pent up aggression locked up in that cell come pouring out, and Adam pounds into her with abandon. "Kensei!" the girl wails. It's jarring and it's not the same, and Adam grits his teeth. "Kensei! _Kensei_!" the girl says. 

Adam shoves her off. "Hey!" the girl says. She yanks the sheet over her breasts. "What's your problem?"

"Get out of here; I'm through," Adam says. The girl glares.

"Just because you fuckin got soft don't mean I don't get paid."

"On the dresser," Adam says. He peels off the condom and yanks on his clothes. 

 

*****

 

He blames Arthur Petrelli for his current state. It is depressing--utterly depressing!--being an immortal and having aches and pains and arthritis like a bloody geriatric. And Hiro! Locking him up in that bloody coffin for god knows how long! And if he were completely honest with himself, he knows deep inside that he is far angrier at Hiro than at anything Arthur ever could have done. All Arthur did was kill him, not unlike any of the dozens of other men he's encountered....

It suddenly occurs to him in his weakened state, Adam can for once indulge in one or more alcoholic beverages and get himself thoroughly, utterly drunk. He drums his fingertips on the tabletop, frowning. _Well why the bloody hell not?_

Desperate times, as they say.

 

****

 

A pint of vodka later, Adam's head is on the table. Unfortunately for him, his body is just strong enough to metabolize the alcohol at that precise concentration where it's not enough to get him sloshed, but it's more than enough to make his head drum like a bloody marching band. Adam cradles his head in his hands, careful to avoid any sudden movements. "You are drunk," Yaeko says.

Adam blinks. "What...?" Adam squints. Across from him, Yaeko is sitting at the table, frowning. "Fuck me, I'm hallucinating," Adam mumbles. 

"You cannot fight White Beard in this state," Yaeko says. She's sitting right in front of him, still and delicate as imperial porcelain, completely incongruent with the dingy room and the naked lightbulb swinging above them. "Kensei, you must be sober. Our village is depending on you..."

The room is a tent, now; Adam is crouched on the ground, his robes half-soiled and his sword lying at his side. Gently Yaeko takes a damp cloth and wipes Adam's face. Her fingertips are soft and cool against his skin, and the scenery changes, and Adam finds himself cradled against her breast. Cherry blossoms fall and Yaeko is smiling. "I think this is what happiness is," Yaeko says, and she touches his cheek.

Funny, Adam thinks. And I had been so lonely...

Adam jerks awake. A thin watery light filters into the room, and the air smells faintly of grease and old cigarettes.

Slowly, he drags himself to the bed. The shabby mattress groans under his weight; he pulls a blanket over his face and sleeps.

 

****

 

He's thinking too much, and no good can come of that. 

There's a knock at the door, and Adam has to bodily drag himself up. Everything hurts. He opens the door and the light slams into his face. He shields his eyes just enough to see again.

It's that kid again, chewing bubble gum and holding out a newspaper. "Room service?"

"I didn't order bloody room service, you've got the wrong room," Adam says, but the kid steps in.

"You're the only tenant," the kid says. "I have a note." Adam takes the note from the kid's hand. In scratchy handwriting it reads, TYLENOL + CLUB SODA + 1 BANANA IN A.M. and realizes he must have ordered it the night before. "For the hangover," Adam says. "Right."

 

*****

 

He hitchhikes his way back to the airport. It has been far too long since he's seen Japan.


End file.
